


Isles of the Deep

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Exophilia, F/F, F/M, Female Reader, Genderfluid Siren, Human/Monster Romance, Memory Loss, Monster Lover, Siren Lover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: There was an accident. Burns and bruises cover your flesh, a gash cut so deep in your leg it almost reaches the bone. You don't remember what happened, in fact, you don't remember anything before, either. All you know is that you are painfully alive, saved by a mysterious stranger with auburn hair.





	Isles of the Deep

Pain is your only reality. Everything else, anything that makes you the person you have become is gone, replaced with black and blood and terror. You can’t think, for thinking is too painful. You can’t move, because in order to do so you would have to think. Accepting the fact that you are slipping into some lesser form of living is not hard because there are no memories of anything from before.

 

To breath is a fight in itself, your lungs rattling with wet and disease with every intake of air. Sometimes you think it would just be easier to stop, to allow yourself to cease. However, every time you lay still for more than a few moments, something swift and hard presses against your chest, forcing your body to continue living.

 

Occasionally, you feel your jaw being forced open, something cold and slimy trickling through your lips. Instinct tells your body to swallow, and it obeys. Whatever you are being fed sends chills through your body, a blissful numbness taking hold of the pain and gently smothering it. Though you have no ability to move, sometimes you are rocked back and forth, something cool dabbing against your broiling skin and soothing your bones.

 

Time does not exist for you anymore. In your darkness, there are no cycles of night and day to keep track of. An eternity might have passed for all you know, cities rising around your unconsciousness and fading any into nothing as people move on and evolve. You could be dead, and this could be the unimaginably tortuous hell. An eternity of dull roaring and thought.

 

Only when your eyes first open do you accept the fact that you are alive. At first, you do not realize that anything is different. Everything is blurry and dark, almost the exact same as behind your eyelids. The flickering of lamplight in the very corner of your eye is what makes you realize that something is different. Though try as you might, none of the muscles in your neck respond to the command to turn your head, and you are exhausting yourself rapidly merely by trying. The blackness returns swiftly, sending your mind back to its depths before you can stop it.

 

Anytime between a stretch of infinity passes before you can open your eyes again. It becomes a long battle to do so, even though previously they opened without your permission as though someone else was at the helm of your body. When you finally manage to rip them open, it takes a long while for your iris to adjust to the sudden brightness. The room you are in is not so dark anymore, washes of sunlight kissing your skin and heating your eyes. You blink, having to force your eyelids open again, and concentrate on one spot on the ceiling while it slowly comes into focus.

 

The ceiling looks rough and uneven, the light creating harsh shadows against the jutting stone. This time, your neck will turn ever so slightly to the left, the edge of a window so close to your sight yet just beyond it. You can taste salt in the breeze that runs over your skin, the spray of a sea hinted in the humidity the air. The ringing in your ears does not cease, a constant shriek that makes you want to bury your head beneath covers and scream to cover it up. You can do exactly none of those things since the most you can move at this point is the faint twitching of your fingers.

 

The moments of awake and rest become more distinct from each other. When you sleep, there are no dreams or thoughts to muddle your brain. While awake, you try keeping your eyes open for as long as possible, observing your surroundings best to your ability. It is one of these moments where you first see your caretaker.

 

Brilliant auburn hair shifts to your side, someone’s face peaking in view. You are momentarily stunned at the sheer symmetry of their face, a jaw sharply sculpted, eyes large and crystalline. The person opens their soft red lips to speak, but all you hear is a faint echo rattling through your head. At your blank stare, they try saying something else.

 

Panic sweeps through you, cold and seizing. Hands shaking like leaves in hurricane winds, you point to your ears, tears filling your eyes to the brim. Understanding passes over the person’s face, their mouth forming a thin line. They nod firmly, reaching over to pet your hair away from your face. Exhausted from the most movement you have made since the darkness, you feel your body shutting back down to go back to sleep.

 

The next time you wake, your rescuer helps you sit up by layering pillows against your back. It indeed is a process, with muscles you aren’t even aware of aching with every step of the way. With your eyesight clearer, you can better make out their features. The edges and lines of their body does not seem as sharp today as yesterday, and they are wearing fairly modest clothing that covers most of their body up. You think… they might be she, just by the subtle bump of their chest that looks like breasts.

 

She wears swathes of amber and marigold in her skirts, her shoulders covered in a dusty golden shawl, tassels lining the edges of the hem. Two layers are covering her torso, a black camisole, and a wrap that matches one of the fabric pieces in her skirt. Bracelets cover her arms, varying in thickness. If the dull roar in your ears would cease, you would probably hear her arms jingle when she moves.

 

As she eases you forward, you notice that you are also wearing similar clothes. A skirt of several fabrics pieced together hugs your waist, a slit opening in to reveal a layer of solid scarlet cloth underneath. Peeking out from the hem of the skirt is a pair of chestnut pants, the edges of which are lined with red trim. Around your chest, you are wearing a simple black top that cuts off just below your belly button.

 

What is alarming, however, are the bandages that cover your exposed skin. The bindings are made of linen, the edges fraying from being torn away from a mother fabric. It was not tied by an expert since some of the knots around your feet are becoming undone, but it looks like something that you could do with the little medical experience you have. The bandages are clean, for sure, thankfully keeping away infection. You look back over to your rescuer, biting your lip in thought.

 

The locks of her hair are so much more vibrant than you previously thought, thick and luscious with volume, flowing down to her waist. The bottom half of her hair ends with waves, rippling like the tides. When she brings you a bowl of stew, still steaming with heat, you notice that she is barefoot. Sitting in an old wooden chair beside you, she scoops up a small bit of broth with a spoon and offers it.

 

First, you try moving your hands. The second your elbows bend as they try to raise the weight of the muscles, you feel a sharp crack of pain running through the nerves of the skin. Tears smart your eyes, your lungs quivering as you try to calm yourself. Fingers run through your hair, your rescuer’s mouth making a soft ‘o,’ as though she is shushing you in comfort.

 

As she feeds you, you try your best not to allow yourself to feel embarrassed. The broth is lukewarm, but incredibly delicious, running down your tongue and down your throat with ease. You had no idea how utterly ravenous you have been, draining the bowl in mere moments. Though you want more, the girl makes no movement to get any.

 

With your stomach adjusting to the foreign feeling of being full, your eyelids drag shut as you begin to fall back asleep. Just sitting up and eating had thoroughly worn you out, your entire body shutting down without your mind’s permission. The girl adjusts the pillows again, gently lowering you down so that you are flat on your back once more.

 

When you wake up again, the ceiling is covered in a violet glow from twilight. Hours or days could have passed, you would not know the difference in your sleep. You try moving your arms again, ignoring the pain that rockets through your nerves. It is like your body is making your arm heavier than it really is, in fear of the pain that comes with moving it. The acute heat flares right up into your shoulders, tears bursting from your eyes and dripping down past your chin as you manage to lift your left arm up a few inches. Your hand shakes as you hold it up, fingers quaking like leaves in a thunderstorm.

 

The vibrations of someone walking alerts you to her presence. You can feel it in the bed, each step more prominent as she comes closer. Lamplight suddenly illuminates the room, the warm flickering away the darkness. A little side table is pushed right up to where you lay, supplies set on it. Turning your head, you see waves of hair, mahogany in the dim light, as your rescuer sits in the chair.

 

He is not wearing a shirt this time, and his chest is most decidedly flat. Maybe it is just the harshness of the candlelight, but you think his features look decidedly sharper now than before. He takes the arm you are holding up in his hand and shakes his head, you can almost hear the  _tut tut_  noise he makes with his tongue as he looks it over.

 

Slowly, he undoes the knot that sits just below your elbow, peeling away the outer layer of bandages. With even more care, he removes the last bit of cloth on your skin. You don’t know what you expected, but your stomach sinks as you see how bad it really is. A burn the size of your fist is on the back of your forearm, blisters oozing with pus and blood. Scratches, some barely pink marks on your flesh, others so deep you can feel them just by looking at them, are carved in your flesh.

 

Taking a small cloth, he dips it in a small wooden bowl on the side table and begins to dab it on your burn. The salve feels cool against your skin, quickly escalating to biting cold, stinging so bad that tears start to burn in your eyes. You do not have the energy to struggle away from him, so you stay still and look to the ceiling, trying to count all the little dips in the stone to distract yourself. As fast as the pain came, it is even slower to recede. With the pain, however, all other feelings leave as well. Soon your arm is nothing more than a limp appendage for your rescuer to work with.

 

He takes a new strip of cloth and begins to rewrap your injuries, slowly and with great care. His cobalt eyes narrow while his tongue sticking between his teeth in concentration. Once or twice he has to unwind part of the bandages because he is unsatisfied with the results, going through the steps with even more attention to detail. When he finishes, he gives your hand an encouraging pat and sets your arm back down.

 

While your arm was being bandaged, the world plunged into darkness. Twilight had breathed its last, releasing the end of its light with a gentle sigh, night crawling in and taking hold of the land. Pinpricks of light begin to flicker just outside of your vision, candlelight slowly illuminating the room as your rescuer begins to work. Vibrations tell you that he is still in here with you as he wanders away with the dirty bandage, moving back and forth from one end of the room to another as though looking for something.

 

A dull clatter barely registers in your ears, though you can’t tell if it is just your imagination. Though it hurts greatly, you find that you can turn your head to watch him. The muscles in your neck are stiff from disuse and what other injuries you must have sustained, but the freedom of looking somewhere other than the ceiling above feels good to have.

 

The movements he makes are graceful and fluid, every motion with strict purpose. He is sorting through an ancient wooden cabinet, etched and burned with runes. There are jars and bottles on the shelves, as well as clay bowls full to the brink with herbs. To the side of the cabinet is a counter, a polished slab of stone standing on wooden boards. Your rescuer takes a bowl full of herbs and begins measuring them using an old-fashioned scale, the kind with twin plates held apart with a chain.

 

You fall asleep sometime while you are watching him stir together what must be another salve, your vision slowly fading until you remember nothing more. When you wake, it is daytime. The dull roar has not yet disappeared, though a shrieking whine sounds in your ears as well. Your eardrums ache so thoroughly you can feel the throbbing all throughout your body. To distract yourself from the pain, you manage to turn your head to look out the window.

 

The blue of the sky is so brilliant your eyes burn. A few clouds hang from the sky, the long puffy wisps near pure white. Near the horizon, the atmosphere is far beyond vibrant. You can almost taste the blue, so richly colored that no one could ever hope to imitate its purity. The window sill, a rocky ledge slightly higher than your stationary body, blocks your view from looking further down. It also would keep you from rolling over the edge.

 

Your rescuer breezes in, his footsteps echoing through the floor and into your bed. As you turn your head stiffly back to look at him, you notice that the pain is less this time. He sets a bowl full of steaming broth down on the side table and helps you to sit up, stacking pillow between your back and the wall. It is still a gruesome process for you, muscles burning from wounds and disuse as everything shifts forward.

 

The broth he supplies to you has small bits of cut-up vegetables, still just as easy to swallow. You suppose that he is gradually going to add more solid foods until you are back to a regular diet. He spoon feeds you again, even tipping the bowl to get the last bits you scarf down. The broth itself is rather tasteless, almost fishy, as though it is spiceless, diluted clam chowder. Once you are finished, he leaves you sitting up for a few minutes while he goes with the bowl, presumably to put away.

 

Now with a better view, you can finally have a good long look at your surroundings. You notice a circular strip of with pearly sand, cerulean water brushing back and forth against the shore. Across from the bay, you see the dark outlines of coral reefs, several sharp edges poking out from the crystalline waves as a subtle warning of its danger. From the vantage point, you are a good couple of stories high. You don’t see the rest of the building, but judging from the rocky formations just disappearing from your vision to the left, a safe guess would be that you are in some sort of cave dug out through a natural cliff face.

 

You remember your name. It took you some panicked thinking to drag it forth from your mind, a place of sludge and sogging thoughts. Though you try, god, you really do, nothing else comes to mind. How you got here. Where you come from, what your life was like. If you had always been here, with your mysterious flame-haired rescuer.

 

There is no familiarity in his gestures, no special kind of connection when his fingers brush against your skin. No recognition as his eyes meets yours, as though the two of you are strangers who only cross paths occasionally, never stopping to talk. He does not share a past with you, that is for certain. Not like a mother, or a sibling, or even a friend. This is something recent.  _You_  are something recent.

 

Being awake becomes terribly boring. There is only so much beach and sunshine you can observe, only so many rocks lining the shore (forty-eight), only so many clouds (twelve), and only so many waves (seven hundred and eighty-nine) you can count until your brain is melting from disuse. Only when your rescuer is here, do you have something exciting and beautiful to watch.

 

You are now convinced there are two of them, a girl and a boy. Both with the same waist length auburn waves, the same warm blue eyes. Both equally buff, their arms and legs lean with visible muscle. Freckles splatter over their skin, across their nose, over their arms, and even over the boy’s chest. Sometimes when they are close enough, you try counting their freckles, but only if you are confident they won’t notice. Strangely, they have similar freckle formations. There is a collection of speckles along their necks, just below their left ears that look like a constellation, one that you know. The name of it is in the back of your head somewhere, rattling around in the hopes of discovery.

 

The girl has softer features, though nearly identical to who you guess is her brother, she has a much more gentle aura surrounding her. The gestures and movements she makes are comforting, her skin soft against yours as she rubs salve over your skin. You find that she enjoys playing with your hair, which had grown significantly while you were unconscious. She brushes it carefully whenever she comes to visit, braiding and twisting it into different hairstyles to keep it from getting tangled when you thrash in your sleep.

 

The boy has a sharper face and body than his sister, his cheekbones high and pronounced, his jawline strong. He is the one who usually takes care of your bandages, not balking even at the gash dug into your thigh. First, he cleans the wound and skin surrounding it with a clean rag and warm water. Once acceptably free of germs, he rubs a salve that stings like what you imagine hell to feel like, then wraps new bandages around it. You notice with every session, he gets better at wrapping the cloth properly.

 

You have to wait several days before you see the full extent of your wounds because the boy only does one section at a time. All over your body are bruises, cuts, and burns, as though you barely escaped a violent, fiery death. You have very little doubt that if your rescuers did not pick you up wherever you were found, you would most certainly be dead fifteen times over.

 

Changing your clothes takes effort and stamina, neither of which you are currently equipped with. Luckily, it seems both your rescuers are extraordinarily patient and capable, able to sit you up and untangle the linen from your body with a small amount of ease. You are all angles and sharpness, fat deposits drained to keep your body alive while you could not eat. With a small amount of humor, you think you could drill a hole into a wooden plank with your pointy elbow.

 

On a positive note, you think your hearing is getting better. Sometimes while your rescuers are visiting, you can hear the dull echoes of clattering as they bang around in the armoire. Though you try to convince yourself it is just your imagination to keep from holding onto false hope, you think you hear muffled humming as both of them work. A melody that sounds almost dully familiar.

 

To be able to feed yourself is luxury you never thought you would miss. Though your hands tremble slightly with the effort, you become strong enough to do it on your own. The broth provided has steadily grown to more of a stew over the few weeks of consciousness, solid foods added to the mix just gradually enough to keep from shocking your system. Your jaw aches from eating, but you still find something rather exciting in being able to do just this one thing for yourself.

 

Communicating with your rescuers is somewhat complicated. At first, you think it is because you are deaf. Though you carefully sound out words from memory, neither of them seem to understand what you are saying. You soon realize that it is nothing on your part that hinders their grasp on your words. A language barrier is stacked against you, and even if you  _could_  hear, you would understand nothing they say either.

 

You realize this when you asked for a book. Not asked verbally, but with gestures and pleading eyes. You close your hands flat against each other and then open them, pretending to read, then glanced over at the girl to see if she understands. Her head cocks as she looks you over, clearly thinking about something. Worry seeps into your skin. She offers a sharp nod, disappearing past a curtain that serves as a door. A few minutes later, her brother walks in wearing the same clothes and holding a thick volume, the cover of which appearing to be actual leather.

 

Maybe they just like matching clothes? This wouldn’t be the first time something like this happened, but your brain has always been just fuzzy enough to discard the information. This time it feels especially strange because you can see a stain from where a flick of oil the girl was rubbing in your hair had ended up on her shirt. The same stain, in the same area. Did they… switch clothes?

 

The boy gently lays the book in your lap, the weight considerable against your weak muscles. The pages are just shorter than your forearm, the cover thick and slightly rough to the touch. With the help of a couple more pillows, you and the boy manage to prop the book up so your arms would not tire. The contents of the book are on the precipice of being too brittle for your clumsy actions to handle, the calligraphy faded from years passed.

 

None of the words you can understand, which confirms some of your suspicions that you and your rescuers do not speak the same language. The book itself is incredibly artistic, so you are equally entertained by tracing the calligraphy and illustrations. You think that this is some sort of botany book since all the meticulous drawings are of plants, scribbled handwriting pointing out the various sections of each stalk, leaf, and petal.

 

The sun begins to set when the boy comes back to retrieve the encyclopedia. You are loathed to let it go, but even the light from the little lamp in the room does nothing to help you focus on the pages. Understanding your plight, the boy pets your hair for a moment as though to comfort you, before walking back through the door.

 

Though you do not hear your own sigh, you feel the long exhale empty your lungs and collapse your chest. Without further thought, you push the extra pillows off of your bed and lay down, curling up, facing the sea. Breeze kisses your face as you close your eyes, whole body sinking into unconsciousness.

**Author's Note:**

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